The Disaster Zone: Soldier
by LMSharp
Summary: Part Three in the Disaster Zone series. Beth Shepard's come a long way from her days in East Side Vancouver. But talent can only get her so far. The lieutenant of her unit begins to teach Shepard how to let down her guard and reach out. But when tragedy strikes, only David Anderson trusts her to work through trauma and a newfound fear of loss to become all she can be. A prequel.
1. Professional Development

I

Professional Development

The new lieutenant was pissing Shepard off. At twenty-two years old, she'd done damn well for herself in the four years she'd been in the Alliance. A shiny new Gunnery Chief stripe on her uniform, _and_ she hadn't bought the rank like a lot of the sissy family military career men on board the cruiser _São Paolo_ , which hosted five units ready to deploy on mission at any time. She'd earned her stripes with blood, sweat, and tears. She got things done, whatever the _things_ might be.

But apparently she wasn't good enough for Lieutenant Sean freaking Ashton. Upon observing her at the shooting range in dock at an Alliance space station, he'd said, "How the hell did they promote you all the way to Gunnery Chief, Shepard? Do you ever use anything other than a pistol? Do you even know how?"

Beth had shot three perfect rounds with that pistol, stationary and moving targets. "It works for me," she'd said.

Ashton had been unimpressed. "Yeah? And what if it's a krogan charging at you, and that cute little thing can't pierce his plates? What if you need to take out a turret at 150 meters before it guns down the entire squad? Shepard, every dock for the next three months I want to see you here, and you don't go ground side with the unit until you shoot that well with at least one other weapon. Got it?" He pointed at the targets for emphasis.

Beth had wanted to cuss him out, wanted to tell him he couldn't do that to their unit, couldn't deprive them of an officer on mission. But he was the superior officer. Military wasn't like the streets, she'd found. Insubordination was okay in the Reds if you had the muscle or the argument to back it up. In the Alliance they called that mutiny, and any offense could be punishable with a shitload of extra duties at the very least, if the CO said so. Ashton didn't strike her as the understanding sort. So instead of cussing him out, she'd said, "Yes, sir."

* * *

The real kick in the ass, of course, was that he was right, Beth thought three weeks later as she knelt at the bar at the shooting range again, sniper rifle aimed at the target. She had been coasting. She'd been so good with a pistol already when she'd joined, she'd tested out of basic marksmanship, and she'd just never bothered learning the other weapons they taught there. It was a weakness on the field, could be a liability. Every man on the team had to be prepared for anything. She knew that, but she wasn't.

She took a deep breath, peered through the scope, and fired. Beside her, someone activated the pulley, and the target came rushing up. Beth looked at it. Perfect headshot.

"That's more like it," Ashton said from over her shoulder. "Can you hit a moving target that clean, Chief?"

"Don't know," Beth answered. "That's the first time I've hit a stationary that clean, and I've been practicing here for hours every time we've been in dock, just like you said."

"We've only been in dock twice before now," Ashton observed.

Beth raised an eyebrow at him and didn't say anything.

Ashton's mouth curved up. "You try any others?" he wanted to know.

"Yes, sir. I don't like shotguns, though. I'm alright with an assault rifle, but this . . . this just feels better. And you did say _one_ , sir."

Ashton hummed. Pressing the controls again, he set the range to move a target back and forth at 110 meters, at the speed of a sprinter moving from cover to cover. Beth waited, catching the speed, until the target had moved once, twice, three times. Then she brought up the rifle, aimed, and fired.

Ashton brought the target up again. Beth hadn't scored a perfect headshot this time. But she hadn't missed, either.

"Keep working at it, Chief," Ashton said. "I want you making headshots like the stationary one every single time on every setting."

"One hundred percent accuracy? Sir, command doesn't ask that. They pass us out of even the advanced courses at eighty-five!"

" _Your_ command asks it," Ashton said. "And only because you can do it, Shepard."

At this, Beth was silent. She couldn't help grinning. Again, he was right. "Yes, sir," she said at last. "Can I . . . permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Granted."

"May I at least go groundside next mission with the unit? I'm going out of my mind onboard ship while you're down there, sir."

"Think we can do that, Chief. Bring a rifle. But for now, I think you've practiced enough. Come on. You should eat something." He shut down Beth's lane. Beth put the rifle with the other practice guns and followed the lieutenant, as she was obviously supposed to do.

For a moment, they walked in silence. Beth wasn't nearly as pissed as she had been, but she really didn't know what to say to her CO, either. If he'd been a grizzled vet it would've been one thing, she thought, but Ashton wasn't too far above her, in rank _or_ age. Her superior, yes, but only just. Stace's age, rather good looking, and if he was a hardass, he was a more well-intentioned hardass than she'd thought at first—not a guy that just wanted to throw his weight around but one that genuinely wanted her to be the best she could be. She didn't know the guy. She'd only just been assigned to the unit.

The silence stretched out, and Beth, feeling the awkwardness, was about to make an excuse and leave, when he broke it first. "So. Sniper rifle. Why do you like that one, Chief?"

Beth hesitated.

"Permission to speak freely, Shepard," he said, catching her reluctance. "This is spaceside leave. Downtime. Talk to me. Not an order, a request."

Beth relaxed a little. "I just . . . the shotgun's so aggressive, sir. With a shotgun, I'm in the enemy's face and I'm _going_ to kill them. I don't . . . I don't _like_ it. The assault rifle's better, but only a little. With the sniper, I can take my time. Maybe I take the shot, maybe I don't. Maybe it doesn't need to be taken. The gun needs patience, accuracy more than aggression. A cool head. And thinking about it, a sniper works best where people can't see him. That's always . . . that's always been the way I work best, too," she added, remembering all the time she'd spent in the Reds doing everything she could _not_ to be seen, by the cops, by the rival gang on the next block over whenever she'd done a hack-and-heist, by all the other members in the gang that would've upped her visibility to cops and rivals if they'd ever known all she was really capable of doing.

"They say you can tell a lot about a soldier by their gun," Ashton remarked. "Snipers are cold. You're right that the shotgun's a more aggressive weapon, but snipers always see the enemy's face in detail."

"Right before they blow it straight to hell," Beth murmured.

Ashton was watching her as they walked out of the corner of his eye. "You don't like killing," he observed. "I've noticed before."

Beth shook her head. "I follow orders, sir. I do what I have to. But I didn't join the Alliance to shoot people. When the Alliance does their job, no one has to get shot."

Ashton considered this, and Beth thought she saw respect there, even approval. "You're right about that, Shepard. So why did you join the Alliance, if it wasn't your lust for violence?"

His tone was flippant, and Beth answered him in kind, though honestly. "Lust for adventure. Brave new worlds, charting new courses. The galaxy's just opening up to humans. I like to be where the action is."

"Smart, with just a _bit_ of an ego. Also characteristics of snipers," Ashton said. He'd hit upon a teasing cadence, and Beth grinned.

"Hey, now."

"Why just the pistol before?" he wanted to know.

"It's what I learned first, sir," Beth shrugged. "Back on Earth."

"Police academy before you went military?" he guessed.

It was the natural assumption, and one that had been made before, but Beth still couldn't avoid feeling like she'd walked right into an electric fence every time. She'd been open with her recruiters about her past, to a point, though she'd taken full advantage of the law that allowed her not to incriminate herself too. Her association with the Reds was on file, but she'd found that not a lot of people looked at where she'd come from when they wanted to know about her. Just what she'd done since enlisting. It gave her a clean start, and Beth loved that. She just hated when she had to remember _she_ wasn't clean. Never would be.

She grimaced "No," and left it at that. Ashton took one look at her face, and backed off.

"Ah, it seems I've stepped into a minefield. Fair enough. Your past is your business, Chief."

Beth nodded curtly, then sighed. He didn't mean any harm by it. "What about you, sir?" she offered, trying to keep the conversation going. "You use an assault rifle in the field. Is that your preferred weapon?"

"It's got some nice range on it," he agreed. "Not as accurate as a pistol or a sniper rifle, but you use one right, and it can cause a hell of a lot of damage."

"Even to a charging krogan, sir?" Beth asked.

Ashton laughed a little. "You better hope we never actually see one of those, Chief. Not pretty. When it's a charging krogan, honestly? You don't just need a really big gun, you also need a lot of luck."

They arrived at the double doors to the mess. Ashton started to hold the door for her, but Beth shot him a scornful look and just opened the other herself.

"Whoa. Guess I better get out of your way, Shepard."

"It's the smart thing to do," Beth told him. She laughed a little at herself then. "Sorry. I just . . . I make my own way. Always have."

Ashton joined her in the food line. Both of them grabbed trays. "I know," he said. "It's something I've noticed. I actually wanted to talk to you about that."

He waited until they'd both been served and were seated at a table before speaking again.

Beth spooned some soup into her mouth, swallowed. "Well, sir? Shoot."

"You're good, Shepard," Ashton informed her. He pointed his fork at her, shook it, dead serious. "Almost as good as you think you are. You've got heart a lot of the others don't. But you won't get much further in your career unless you learn to work with others."

Beth was insulted. "Sir, I follow orders," she repeated. "I do my duty."

"Yes, you do," he agreed. "But you're moving into command now, Chief. It's not just about following orders anymore. You're responsible for the lives and actions of the men under you. You can't just think of your part, you have to think of everyone's part. The good of the unit, not just you."

Ashton paused, took a couple bites, looked at her to see if she was getting it. "Shepard, I've seen you. No one does their job better or more thoroughly than you. You're smart, you're capable, and when you need to learn something, you learn it fast. But you don't work well with others. You don't know the unit, you don't trust the unit, and that means they don't trust you. And if they don't know you, don't trust you, how are you going to command them in the field? How are you even going to know what commands you should give? Something's got to change."

Beth considered. Once again, Ashton was right. It was getting annoying, how often that happened, she reflected. Every time she walked into the room, the unit fell silent. Before now, she'd been a glorified relay for someone else's instructions on the field. As Gunnery Chief, she was supposed to work with Ashton to make sure missions ran smoothly, which meant making decisions about how they would run. With machines, computers, all the parts and processes had to be in place and functioning well or they wouldn't work right. With a unit it was the same, except Beth hadn't gotten to know the components that made up the unit. She didn't know where they'd go best, or how they ought to function.

"Understood, sir," Beth said, humbled. "Thank you, sir."

"It's my job to help you be the best you can be," Ashton said. "And you're part of my unit."

Beth guessed she was, and extended her hand. "Well, sir. I'm Beth Shepard, Gunnery Chief of the 179. My background's small-group street ops, with a defensive tech and mechanical specialty. I'm trained in hand-to-hand combat, single opponent or against a group. I'm a hell of a shot with a pistol, and I'm working on learning the sniper rifle. You tell me where and how to go, I go."

Ashton, amused, shook her hand, playing with her that they were meeting for the first time. Perhaps they were. His brown eyes flitted over to a nearby group of the men, eating nearby. "Chief?" he said.

"Lieutenant?" Beth said, though she knew before he said it what he wanted her to do.

"Go."

Beth picked up her tray and went over to begin getting to know the rest of the squad.


	2. Tactician

II

Tactician

"Checkmate."

Beth made a pretense of checking the board, but she knew that there was no way out of it. "Dammit!" she laughed. "Got me again! What is that, 17–2? God, I'm never going to get this game. At least it's good for _your_ ego."

Servicewoman Bonnie Evans, nearby in a chair watching the game, laughed, too. "Aw, don't sweat it, Chief. You're getting better! Really!"

"Yeah. In a couple months you might actually be able to outplay my blind, old nana," Serviceman Ned Granger cracked.

"Watch it, private," Beth growled. "Your nana might be able to beat me at chess, but I can still kick your pretty boy ass from here to kingdom come!"

Ned Granger's hazel eyes widened. They were the subject of many other little privates' rhapsodies in other units, if scuttlebutt was to be believed, though he kept things professional within the 179. He looked at Ashton imploringly. "Lieutenant, you heard her, didn't you? That's hardly the way to foster unit cohesion, death threats against the men, is it?"

Ashton stood, grinning, and clapped the private on the back. "You're on your own, Granger. The chief could probably kick _my_ ass, too, and you were the damn fool that provoked her."

Granger held up his hands. "Mercy, mercy, ma'am," he begged comically. "I'm sure you'd eat my nana's lunch!"

Beth folded her arms, playing the hardass. "That's more like it."

"You're too reactionary," Chance Wright spoke up from across the room, looking up from his datapad and out through his old-fashioned glasses that Beth was convinced he wore in downtime purely in protest of contact regulation in the field. "Ma'am," he added, as an afterthought. "Chess is a strategist's game. You move on every move, but you have to anticipate Ashton if you want to win. Anticipate the lieutenant, I mean." Blushing, he went right back to his book.

Wright was fresh from basic, wet behind the ears and a little off the beaten path, but the kid was a freaking genius with drones and traps. Beth had learned some things from him on the last mission, and that didn't happen often, with tech.

Granger grinned at Beth, waiting for her to explode all over Wright too, but Beth looked at Ashton instead. The lieutenant's expression was unreadable, but Beth knew exactly what he was thinking. It was the first time Wright had said anything to any of them in downtime. Kid was scared stiff of the rest of the unit, all of them with at least two years' experience on him. So Beth stood and crossed the station lounge to sit across from him. Behind her, she heard Ashton leaving, letting her take this one on her own, and Evans challenging Granger to a card game.

"A strategist's game, huh? You know much about chess, Wright?" Beth asked the kid.

Wright looked up with a little smile. "I used to play back in school," he said. "My ROTC officer taught me. Said it sharpened the mind."

"Got any tips for your chief, private?" Beth asked. "Lieutenant Ashton keeps kicking my ass."

"Guess he's trying to sharpen _your_ mind, Shep—ma'am, I mean."

"Shepard's fine here," Beth told him. "This is the lounge. Downtime. Having trouble remembering addresses?"

"I'm from a small colony," Wright explained. "Everybody knew everybody else. Nobody really bothered with the formalities. They kicked my ass in basic about it. Ran so many laps and did so many pushups for slips I thought all my limbs would fall off."

"No fear of that here. The lieutenant and I aren't _real_ sticklers for protocol. Toombs'll give you a hard time. Just got that shiny new corporal's insignia, and he loves sticking it in everybody's face. But he can't really do anything to you. Still," Beth conceded, "I'd probably practice. Just in case. For inspections and such. So. Which little colony are you from, Wright?"

"Tiptree, ma'am," Wright answered. "Joined the Alliance as soon as I could. Wanted to get the hell out of there. See the stars."

"That's something we have in common, then," Beth told him. "That's the same reason I joined. But you kind of miss it now, don't you?"

"I miss my family," he said. He blushed again. "That's not something we're supposed to say, is it? Supposed to be tough soldier types. But I do. My parents. My sister and brother-in-law. My niece."

Beth felt that familiar rush of envy and longing that always pulled at her when others told her about the people they had back home. Parents, siblings, lovers. All the people she'd never had. But at the same time she kind of loved the kid for being so open, loved his family for being decent human beings that he could miss.

"It can be hard at first," she said. "When I first joined, I missed my best friend from back home and her family a lot. But it's a good thing we're doing, private. You learn the job, meet new people. Move on. Speaking of which." She tapped Wright's tablet. "What do you say you save that for later and show me some of those chess tips, huh?"

Wright smiled again. "Yeah, okay."

* * *

Ashton found her in the mess the next day and sat across from her. "That was an impressive use of tactics in the lounge the other day. Maybe a little too good. I think our littlest private has a crush on you now."

He glanced over at a nearby table, and Beth followed his gaze to where Chance Wright was sitting, together with a couple other people in the unit for the first time since he'd been assigned. He saw Beth looking and waved cheerily. Ashton hadn't been lying. The expression on his face was one of undisguised adoration. Beth tipped a wary wave back and looked away.

She grimaced at Ashton. "Crap," she muttered to him under her breath. "I just meant to make him feel a little more at home here."

Ashton grinned, enjoying her obvious discomfiture. "Relax. He's just a little puppy missing his mama. The others will follow your example and welcome him in, and he'll adjust and get over it. No big deal. I remember I had a crush on _my_ gunnery chief, back in the day. Tall, fit, hair like midnight, eyes like stars. A goddess in a jumpsuit with a big freaking gun." He chuckled. "Or so I thought. Truth was, she was just a hell of a lot more approachable than my hardass bastard of a CO. I missed my mama too. It's normal, Shepard," he assured her, "And it never goes anywhere."

Beth forced a smile. "Well, that's a relief. Thought I was going to have to break the poor kid's heart," she said lightly, as her own heart settled somewhere in the vicinity of her boots.

"Oh, you're going to," Ashton promised, unconcerned. "But hearts are resilient at eighteen. He'll recover, and you'll just be a sweet, stupid, little story to tell _his_ subordinate when she goes and makes some other cute, little private fall in love with _her_." He smiled at Wright's table, as if nostalgic for the good old days.

Beth kept her face completely stoic, as if hearing Ashton dismiss Wright's crush so easily, tell her things like that happened all the time but nothing ever came of it wasn't a kick right to the gut. Of course it was nothing between her and Ashton. She was just one more little lost puppy crushing on the first superior officer to give a damn and make her feel like she was worth something. Oh, she'd had her commendations before, clipped right up through the ranks, but no one had ever taken the time like Ashton had done, and she'd been stupid enough to think it meant something. But the gun practice, the meals, the chess, asking her opinion in the field—all of it was just professional. Making her the best officer she could be. And even if it did mean something, he was right: it would never go anywhere. Ashton _wasn't_ a stickler for protocol, but everyone knew the regs about in-unit fraternization existed for _many_ damn good reasons.

Still, she couldn't resist grumbling a _little_. "I didn't _make_ Wright do anything, just like your gunnery chief didn't do anything when it was you. He just _did_. Little puppy missing his mama, like you said. He'd've fallen in love with _you_ , if you'd stepped to him first."

"Maybe that's why I didn't," Ashton teased. "But maybe not. You do look damn sexy with a rifle, Shepard. And when you bristle up when you think someone's insulted you. Just . . . like . . . that." He pointed at Beth's expression in triumph and took a bite. He made eating peas look smug.

" _You_ just have a gun fetish, Ashton," Beth retorted, feeling hollow inside. It wasn't fair for him to tease her like that, when it was nothing, couldn't go anywhere. But she'd been smart enough so far not to let on he'd affected her, and she wasn't about to change now, so she kept up the banter. "I should've known it from the beginning, what with the range and all. And now you tell me about your gunnery chief and her big freaking gun?" She clicked her tongue. " _Pervert_. That's all I'm saying."

"Sexy's sexy, chief," Ashton said, unperturbed. "And a big freaking gun is _sexy_."

Beth considered this. "Yeah, kind of," she admitted. She blushed immediately as Ashton lit up like the proverbial canary-chomping cat. "Do _not_ take that where your head just went!" she snapped.

" _You_ stepped into it."

Beth glared. "Be that as it may."

"I'm glad you talked to him," Ashton said then, seriously. "I was a little worried about Wright. He's a damn good combat engineer and we need him, but if he didn't settle in soon I was going to have to transfer him. All his skill would be useless if he couldn't work with the unit."

"He's a little weird, but he's a good kid. I don't know why anyone would have a problem with him," Beth said.

"Don't think they will. Well, Toombs might, but Toombs is full of shit, anyway. But someone had to break the ice. When command does, it's a good example for the unit."

"Unless everyone hates the officer," Beth pointed out.

Ashton raised an eyebrow. "Hard to hate someone who keeps losing at chess in front of everyone in the lounge and taking shit for it."

Beth blinked. "Wait—you knew?"

He laughed at her. "Chief, if you didn't want me to catch on you were throwing the games, you might've made your two wins the only times it was just us in there a little less like resounding victories."

Beth made a face, acknowledging the point. "Okay, so maybe that was a bit of an amateur move. God, I'm out of practice faking," she mused aloud. "I used to be so good at it, too."

"You don't need to fake anything," Ashton told her, finishing his meal. "Just be yourself and trust the unit. You've gotten to know them well enough they all trust you. Shepard, they're damn proud of you. Should've heard Toombs talking up the Belt mission to a couple of guys in the 109th last week. He practically recited an epic in your honor."

"Yeah, well, Toombs is full of shit," Beth said, standing.

Ashton stood, too. "Take the praise, soldier," he said gently. "You've earned it. And stop pretending to be less than you are. That's an order."

Despite the fact that she could actually play chess, Beth was a tactician, not a strategist. Her specialty was reacting to problems in the moment and doing what needed to be done. But looking into Ashton's warm, open face, with her stomach doing sad, little flips and her bruised heart in the toes of her boots, Beth just didn't know how to react to _this_ problem. She had no plan of attack, and no defense. "Yes, sir," she said.

* * *

 **A/N: If you're back, hey! Nice to have you! If you're new, it's great to have you too. Check out Parts One and Two on my profile, entitled _Nobody's Child_ and _Little Beth_ , respectively, for more about Beth Shepard's childhood in Vancouver and her time in the Tenth Street Reds. **

**Leave a review if you've got something to say. It's always nice to hear from my readers.**

 **Best Always,**

 **LMS**


	3. Against Regulation

III

Against Regulation

* * *

 **TRAILER FOR** _ **ELYSIUM 2176**_ **(2177), THE FIRST VID EVER TO FEATURE BETH SHEPARD (PLAYED BY ANGELA ROBERTS).**

Silence. A planet-shot, Elysium, glowing like a jewel in the darkness of space. Fade to black. A beautiful town, with human families playing and talking together. Fade to black. A pristine, white-sand beach, looking up into a clear, blue sky. Fade to black.

The sound of cannon fire cuts through the silence. Batarian ships, seemingly peaceful, have coalesced in the sky into a thirty-vessel attacking force. Women and children run screaming. A building collapses.

Close-up of a bespectacled woman in a suit yelling into a com.

 **NATALIE OWOLOWO: Elysium is under attack! Get the Alliance! Get the—**

The woman is shot by a sinister-looking batarian in scratched red armor. Outside, a ship has landed on the ground. Batarians with assault rifles herd frightened humans into the belly of the ship. They brutally strike down an old man that tries to resist with a rifle butt.

A young woman in Alliance fatigues on the beach is beside another man in an Alliance T-shirt and sunglasses. They frantically look to a handsome, dark-haired man in his late twenties.

 **POLLY WILKINSON: The Alliance is on the other side of the system. Back-up will be too late. We've got no extra guns, no armor, and no plan. Philip—**

Close-up on the dark-haired man, eyes narrowed with determination.

 **PHILIP LOCKE: We can't let them destroy Elysium.**

Heroic, urgent music begins to play as words appear onscreen.

 **COMING THIS OCTOBER**

Succession of scenes flash quickly on the screen. A teenage girl wrestles with a batarian for control of an assault rifle in the hold of a batarian ship. She knocks him to the ground. PHILIP LOCKE, POLLY WILKINSON, and ETHAN TATSUDA, in cover at the port, fire at the batarians guarding the ship on the ground.

 **ETHAN TATSUDA: They're going to take off!**

 **BASED ON THE INCREDIBLE TRUE STORY**

In orbit, Alliance fighters fire upon the batarian ships, while PHILIP speaks in voiceover.

 **PHILIP LOCKE: So humans are the new kids on the block, and you think you can push us around? Think again.**

A batarian in red armor with an insignia orders three others to set bombs at the support pillars of Illyria's City Hall. On an Alliance ship in the battle, a shot lands. Sparks go up, hitting the captain of the ship.

 **ALLIANCE TECHNICIAN: Shields are down! They've knocked us out of orbit!**

Out the window, the heat of the atmosphere is visible on the wing of the carrier. An Alliance fighter collides with the falling ship. Both fighter and pilot are vaporized. As alarms sound, two lesser officers take control of the freighter, a young lieutenant with light brown hair, and a blonde operations chief. The chief's omni-tool comes up, and she shouts to the lieutenant.

 **CHIEF BETH SHEPARD: Take the com! Reposition our fighters! This isn't working!**

 **LIEUTENANT SEAN ASHTON: We're falling out of the sky, here, Chief!**

As the music swells, SHEPARD's jaw tightens, and she runs toward the ship's computer.

 **CHIEF BETH SHEPARD: Leave that to me.**

Back on the ground, in a public building, an asari catches LOCKE's arm. With her are two salarians and a human civilian woman. All are armed.

 **NASAA T'RILL: This is our home, too. Let us help defend it!**

 **FROM IRIS PICTURES and HELIOS STUDIOS**

ETHAN TATSUDA fires around a corner and grins at POLLY WILKINSON, beside him, as planetary defense cannons start firing into space. On the batarian ship, the human captives are raging against their attackers, with the teenage girl, bloodied but defiant, screaming as she leads a riot.

 **WITH EMMETT BRYANT and VINIA RIKON**

Alliance fighters swarm the batarian ships, flanking them from above and beneath. On the steps of Illyria's capital building, PHILIP LOCKE and NASAA T'RILL lead a mob of civilians with lasers, shotguns, and baseball bats.

 **ELYSIUM 2176**

Fade to black.

* * *

It was nearing 2000 hours, _São Paolo_ time, when Beth got the ping asking her to Ashton's quarters. It wasn't their usual conference hours, and she couldn't think of any official business they might have together. So she was puzzled when she left her little console on the bridge, and instead of heading to the 179's crew barracks, she headed to Ashton's cramped room in the officers' hall. She passed the captain and XO quarters, and those of the other four units' lieutenants, and knocked on the door that said _2_ _nd_ _Lt. S. Ashton, 179._

"Come in, Shepard," came Ashton's muffled voice, and the access port blinked green. Beth opened the door and descended the ladder down to the room that served as Ashton's office and sleeping quarters aboard the _São Paolo_.

His desk was messy as usual, piled high with datapads and official reports he either had to read or submit to someone else. But Ashton was like Beth hadn't ever seen him before. He was pacing again and again in the very small space between his desk and his bunk. His short, sandy hair stood on end, like he'd run his fingers through it in frustration several times.

He spoke without looking at her. "It's no good, Shepard. I can't take it anymore, and there are regs. I've looked at it forwards, backwards, and sideways, and I can't see any way around it. I'm putting in a transfer request for you tomorrow morning."

Beth was floored. It was like the galaxy had turned upside-down in a nanosecond, and she had no idea what had happened. "Sir . . . Ashton . . . I'm sorry, I don't understand. Have I done something? I thought we had a good thing going here. We work well together. Back at Elysium, I don't think it's an exaggeration to say both of us helped Captain Wendell save the ship and everyone aboard her. Neither of us could've done it alone."

"No, of course not. I think the captain's sent in commendations for both of us to the brass, actually. Wouldn't surprise me if they promoted you out of the unit soon anyway. And yes, we've done well together, Shepard. That's not the problem. It's not you, it's me . . . damn it, I promised myself I wouldn't say anything stupid like that . . ." Ashton turned to her, eyes half-wild, arms stretched out.

"Then damn it, Ashton, what's the issue?" Beth demanded. "Spit it out!"

"We work _too_ well together, that's what," Ashton snapped. "Been coming on for a while, and I've tried to quash it, but I can't. If things keep on as they are, I'm going to do something stupid we'll both regret."

Beth blinked. She sat down, hard, in the brown visitor's chair. "What?" she asked. Her voice came out a strangled whisper. Time seemed to crystallize as she waited for his answer. The air between them seemed to hum.

Ashton didn't mince words. "I like you, Shepard," he said. "A little too damn much."

Beth tried to find her words, but all that came out was a breathy, "Really?" Beth immediately despised herself.

Ashton was too distressed to pick up on the tone that gave everything away. "Yes. I'm sorry. I said I tried to stop. But you're too damn close, and I can't—"

"Why did you try to stop?" Beth interrupted.

 _Now_ he looked at her. "What?" he asked in his turn.

"Why'd you try to stop?" Beth asked again, more sure this time. "I don't mind. Hell, I . . . I . . . at any rate, sending me away would be stupid. There hasn't been anything inappropriate, lieutenant," she said, returning to safe ground as she recovered herself. "You haven't done anything wrong."

Ashton stared at her. "Not yet," he said slowly. "But Shepard, you should see the inside of my head. Well, no. You really shouldn't. You'd probably hang me by my toes out the airlock." But he ended the last sentence like a question, as if he was uncertain that she _would_. She'd said enough that now he wondered.

"No," Beth answered the unspoken question. "I wouldn't. Damn it, I'm no good at this," she swore. "Ashton, I don't . . . I _really_ don't mind. I mean, yeah, there are regs, but if I'd _known_ . . . what I mean to say is . . ." She gave up. "I haven't known anyone like you," she confessed. "Don't, just _don't_ transfer me. Not for _that_."

Ashton fell into his own chair and stared. "Shepard," he said, "Are you saying what I think you're saying? 'Cause I'm serious. I want you, and that's bad. We can't . . . I can't—"

Beth was suddenly annoyed. "And why the hell not?" she demanded. "Tell me that. Why the hell not? You've managed to keep it under wraps that you want into my pants this long—"

Ashton winced. "Don't put it like that," he said, but Beth ran right over him.

"—and apparently I have, too, or you would've known I've liked you for months now. I'd say odds are we can probably keep it professional. So _why the hell not_? Screw the regs. Or don't, but just don't be an idiot and send me packing and screw up a good thing when, _either way_ , we'll be just fine. If you want me, I am _right_ here, Ashton. If not, we'll just pretend this little conversation never happened, and I'll see you tomorrow at the usual time."

Beth stared him down, daring him. He looked for all the world like she'd clubbed him over the head with a two by four. Tough, Beth thought. That's how she felt, and also like he was dangling her off the edge of a cliff. She was elated he was into her, terrified he'd make her leave, and just plain pissed all at once. He could deal with a little shock and his sudden attack of the protocol fever.

"Christ, you're young," he muttered finally.

"You're not _that_ much older than me," Beth shot back, stung.

"Not what I meant."

Beth knew what he meant. She folded her arms. "You mean I don't know what I'm doing because I haven't found anyone _worth_ doing before." She guessed it was obvious that she didn't have a lot of experience with men. She'd been teased about it before, when the unit was relaxed, talking shit, and she'd never bothered to lie about it. She'd never thought it would come back to bite her in the ass, though.

Ashton winced again. "No, let's say it," Beth said, really angry now. "It's true enough. By some miracle of God, I retained my virginity through eighteen years in the slums of Vancouver and six years of military service. So what?"

"So now you're finally ready to give it up, you want to sneak around with your CO?" he challenged her, gently. He sighed and shook his head. "It's not a good idea."

Beth looked at the defeated set of his shoulders, the temptation smoldering in the back of his eyes. Her anger and annoyance dissipated all at once. She got where he was coming from, she really did. He was trying to protect her—from risking her career; from doing something she'd regret; from first experiences in single bunks and supply closets, biting back her cries and keeping secrets from everyone around her. Because to him, she deserved that kind of respect and consideration. That was why the worst thing of all would be being sent away.

She stood up and walked around the desk. She shrugged. "So it's not a good idea." Ignoring the datapads, she sat on top of the desk, facing Ashton. She saw the tension through his arms and soldiers, his face, torn between what he wanted and what he thought was right for her. But even Ashton couldn't decide that. Only she could decide that. "You're my friend, Sean. Probably the best man I've ever known."

He let out a shaky laugh. "Tells me more about you than me, Shepard. You need some broader experience."

"Maybe," Shepard admitted. "Look. Here, now, can we forget about _CO_ and _subordinate_? Just be us? You want me?"

Sean's pupils were dilated as he held her gaze. "Yeah," he admitted again.

Beth reached a tentative hand toward his face, brushed his cheek with her thumb, half terrified at her own boldness. "Then could you stop being stupid?"

Ashton swore under his breath, even as he covered her hand with his own, pressing it to his face. "Now I could transfer you for inappropriate overtures."

"Are you going to?" Beth asked, half-dreading the answer.

For a long, charged moment, it looked like Ashton himself didn't know. Then she saw him crack. "No," he said finally. With that, he gripped her hand, and in one, smooth movement, he pulled her off the desk, into his lap, and into a kiss.

Beth really didn't have any experience, but she closed her eyes and let instinct take over, folding her arms around his neck and losing herself in the smell of gun oil and aftershave, in the feeling of his arms around her and his lips on hers. Ashton certainly seemed to be enjoying himself, though, and there was a swooping in her stomach that felt like power and weakness all at once, and left her head buzzing when he pulled away, much too soon in her opinion.

She looked at him, confused. He pushed her out to arm's length, staring into her face. "It's not just sex, though, Shepard. You have to understand that," he said, squeezing her shoulders for emphasis. "It's _you_ , with your brilliance and your bravery and the way you throw yourself headfirst into every mission, rise to every single challenge like it's nothing, care so much even when you never say. I want _that_. I want _you_." He gazed into her eyes, more serious than she'd ever seen him, willing her to understand.

She did, and it warmed her from the inside out. She smiled slowly at him. "Well?" she said. He didn't need anything else.

He grinned back at her, eyes alight like she'd just handed him a star, and pulled her down into another kiss.

* * *

 **A/N: So, I guess I better explain the trailer. Judging the quick production of the highly successful Blasto movies, Shepard's possible participation in one of them in Citadel, and an aside comment from a supporting character about "living off the royalties from the vids," I'm assuming video production is a much faster affair in the Mass Effect-verse than it is here, with relaxed privacy standards—though producers still have to pay for life rights. A while back, my brain kind of went crazy.**

 **I sort of came up with the idea for almost three dozen vids featuring ten different actresses that might have been made about (or featuring) the character of Commander Shepard over the course of her career. In-universe fanfics, if you will. Borderline pornos; student-made, low-quality, viral parodies like you might see online; biopics; romances; wartime propos during the Reaper War. Even one cartoon. I imagined them made by all sorts of different producers with all sorts of different agendas for all sorts of different audiences. (I figure Shepard has an extremely large krogan fanbase.) Prohuman vids, antihuman vids, pro-species cooperation vids, Shepard-is-crazy vids. Art reflects life, and as I thought of how people might perceive Shepard in the media, I thought it was interesting how her story might be distorted to suit other people's objectives—or appeal to the popular audience.**

 **Most of the vids will stay in my "Cut Content" folder. I'm guessing you're more interested in my real Shepard story, not the ways I imagine it was spun and what that might say about the different factions and states of mind in the galaxy over the Mass Effect trilogy. But occasionally, like the meetings and recordings I put in the earlier stories, I might include trailers or vid reviews to show what the galaxy thinks of Beth Shepard.**

 **You can see that while Shepard is not the "War Hero" (in my universe a civilian girl, an asari, and three Alliance soldiers on vacation accomplished what War Hero Shepard did on his/her own), consistent with her potential dialogue with Haliat in** _ **Mass Effect,**_ **in my universe she** _ **did**_ **fight in the Skyllian Blitz.**

 **To those that think I've gotten dark at times: you ain't seen nothing yet. And . . . sorry. I'm** _ **so**_ **sorry.**

 **Yours,**

 **LMSharp**


	4. Akuze

**A/N: Although the timing is completely coincidental, it is particularly fitting nonetheless. So today's chapter goes out to the vets. War and violence are terrible, terrible things, so much worse when the monster on the field is another human being, whether it is your brother or sister from across the world, your friend-or what they've made of you. I've never gone to war myself. I hope I never have to. But I wanted to recognize those of you that do, those of you that might have been through something like Beth Shepard, so much worse because of a human's part in what you saw. Thank you. God Bless You. And I hope that, like Beth Shepard, you will eventually find your peace.**

 **LMSharp**

* * *

IV

Akuze

It wasn't because she was such a great soldier that Beth Shepard survived Akuze. It wasn't luck. She'd been awake because she'd been breaking regulation, just like she had been for the past eight months, and on mission, because she'd got the word that it was to be her last run with the 179. Ashton's promotion to first lieutenant hadn't changed much, but after Captain Wendell's commendation, she'd received her second promotion since joining the unit, and with her commission as a second lieutenant she'd received her own command, on another cruiser with another unit. She'd been scheduled to ship out in a week, when the _São Paulo_ returned to station.

She'd found out the day before the mission to Akuze. She'd had to employ the old tricks to keep from breaking down after her meeting with Wendell, until late that night when she could safely sneak into Ashton's quarters. Not that she wasn't happy about the promotion. She was thrilled about the promotion. But she knew what it meant for her and Ashton.

* * *

" _It's over, isn't it? There's no guarantee the_ Cairo _'ll berth and fuel here again. In fact, I think she's generally stationed halfway across the galaxy. Even with the mass relays, that's a lot of territory for the Alliance. We might never see each other again," she'd said._

 _Sean had held her and stroked her hair, but he hadn't been able to lie. "We could try," he managed weakly. "Holocalls, emails. We could coordinate our shore leave. Wouldn't even be breaking regs anymore."_

 _She'd laughed, but it came out strangled through her tears. "How often do_ you _call home, Sean? I haven't talked to Stace in years. Both of us are too focused on the job. The only reason this works is_ because _we work so closely together."_

 _He'd smiled sadly then, shaken his head. "I won't ask you to stay," he warned._

 _"I won't decline the posting," Beth had retorted. "It's a great opportunity."_

 _"Think I don't know that? I've been pushing this for you for months. I don't know why the hell it took brass so long. You'll outrank me in two years, Beth. Kick all our asses."_

 _"Damn right I will."_

 _"I love you," Sean confessed, as if to a crime._

 _Beth had sighed, touched his face, and turned her mouth up to his. As he kissed her, she'd smiled against his lips and left her tears on his cheek. "I know. I love you, too. But you or me, it's not enough."_

 _If he'd denied it, she would have despised him, but he didn't, and she loved him all the more for it. "I'm sorry," he said._

 _"So am I."_

 _"As often as I can, before," she'd promised. "I'll be with you."_

* * *

So even though Beth'd never compromised a mission before, never brought her relationship with Sean into the field, she'd done it that night, because the relationship was ending. She'd lain awake in the tent she shared with several other women in the unit, waiting until the stories and the speculation had stopped and every woman's breathing had deepened. Then, fully dressed, she'd slipped out of the cot and out of the tent, toward Sean's command tent.

She'd wanted all the more to see him that night because it was so damn creepy at Akuze. The streets empty, the houses unlocked and abandoned. It was like freaking Roanoke or something. Looking back on it later, Beth cursed herself a thousand times for not insisting they post a watch. Sean had said it was unnecessary. There had been no signs of violence. They'd determined to camp and search for more evidence as to what had happened to the colony in the morning. Beth, weary from a day's fruitless recon anyway, had not pressed the point. It'd been a bad job from the start, she thought later. If she'd done what she should, other people might have survived. She knew that if she'd done what she should, she might have died too. But she should have known. She should have been ready.

Just a five-second tremor: that was all the warning she'd had. Then the first thresher maw had erupted from the silent earth right in the middle of one of the men's tents. They weren't called that then, of course. The Alliance had had no word for the things, hadn't known about them or heard of them from the krogan yet. Not until after that night. A bunch of scientists with datapads and sick, eager, shining eyes had made Beth describe the monsters later to a sketch artist, asked her exactly what she'd seen, what the things had done and how they'd done it. She'd given them what they wanted. It wasn't like she'd ever be able to forget.

The mouth was the first thing she'd seen. The giant, slavering, working mouth, erupting one, three, ten meters into the air, roaring and spewing acid. The wicked mandible, three meters wide and dripping with that acid, and dozens of smaller, waving legs at each segment of the massive, armored body. Smaller. Each leg was the approximate size and sharpness of a harpoon.

The first creature had torn through the military-issue tent like tissue paper. The first screams had rent the night, horrible, despairing screams of brave, seasoned men looking straight into the jaws of a nightmare, into the gates of hell. The second monster had tunneled up between the camp and the vehicles, the heavy artillery. Then there was a third, and a fourth, and Beth was screaming into the radio she'd had fixed to her pants, diving into a tent and grabbing the first gun her fingers touched.

"This is Shepard! To me! To me! The camp is under attack! The camp is under attack! Grab a weapon, form a formation! We'll skirt the side to the heavy artille—"

Beth dived to her left as one of the worms, arcing back underground, sprang up again not two meters from her. She fired blindly, only to find her bullets repelled by the thing's natural armor. "This is Shepard! This is Shepard!" Her left finger cracked on the radio button, sending a jolt of pain up to her brain. It was unimportant. The ragged, high voice she yelled in was unrecognizable as her own. "On my six! Retreat! Retreat!" She pressed the button on the radio to call the shuttle. "Templeton! It's Shepard! Get your ass here! Now! We need air support, air lift, _anything_! _Get us out_!"

Beth jumped as the ground beneath her rumbled. She rolled, came up firing back behind her. Someone else had got a gun, now, and a flare went up red in the night. Beth could see the monster dark and huge in front of it, and in its jaws, Bonnie Evans. Cheerful, dimpled Bonnie, who had baked cookies for all fifty men in the unit last leave, just because. The jaws shut on her, and she snapped like a twig. Beth heard her bones crunch.

"Evans!"

That'd been Orwell. The camp was up now, running around in every direction, trying to escape the monsters. "Forget her!" Beth had shouted. "Orwell! To me! On my flank, and watch our back!" And into the radio again. "Templeton! Templeton! Come the hell in!"

The radio had finally crackled to life. "Chief? What the hell is going on?"

"Templeton! Giant things are attacking the—ahh!"

Beth had ducked and rolled to avoid a spray of acid. To the side, she saw it hit a serviceman square in the face. The viscous liquid attacked his face, ate away his skin in seconds, melted the muscle right down to the bone, and then corroded the bone black, too. There was just time for an inhuman cry to tear from his throat, for him to clutch at the face that wasn't there anymore before he fell like a marionette whose strings had been cut, and the thresher maw slid over his corpse toward Beth.

"Retreat! Orwell! To me!"

"Shepard?" Templeton had asked over the radio. Beth hadn't had time to answer him.

Firing another round with the pistol, Beth hit one multifaceted, bulging eye. Green blood had spurted out from the wound, spurting over her, hot and sticky, but so, so welcome, because now she knew the things were vulnerable. The monster had shrieked, reared, dove underground. "Aim for the eyes!" Beth had called to Orwell. Beneath her, the ground had shaken again. Beth had sprinted away instinctively, zigzagging as she went.

"Chief!" Ned Granger had recognized her voice and rallied with Orwell behind her. "Orwell! What are these things? What's the plan?" He clutched a shotgun in his hands, not his usual weapon. It had been the first thing he'd grabbed too.

"Stay with me and don't get killed! Try to get to the artille—"

One of the monsters had arced itself over the land vehicle. The heavy armor crunched like aluminum between its massive plates. A young man had had the same idea as Beth. He'd been by the wheel, trying to work the door open. He was too slow to escape being crushed to death with the vehicle. Beth recognized his scream. Chance Wright, all of nineteen years old.

Beth had fired another round as tears of fury and terror streamed from her eyes. She'd hit one leg at the joint, blown it off. Granger'd hit another. More green blood had spurted.

"Shepard! What's your status? Come in!" Templeton had begun to sound a fraction as panicked as everyone on the ground.

"The camp is overrun, the vehicle's destroyed. We're _dying_ down here!" Beth had reported. Behind her, she'd seen the ground ripple. " _Orwell_ , watch your . . ."

She'd leapt away from the giant mouth that erupted not a meter behind her. When she'd scrabbled to her feet and kept running, she'd found that only Granger continued behind her.

"I'm on my way, Chief," Templeton had said over the radio. "Tracking your signal . . ."

"Negative! Negative! It's too hot! Land away from here. I'll save who I can and come to you. Otherwise these things'll crush the shuttle like a nutcracker."

"Affirmative. Sending you a rendezvous," Templeton had said. Beth's omni-tool had beeped with the LZ point he'd mapped, four kilometers away.

Behind them, what had been the camp but was now a hill churning with the feasting monsters, was starting to fall silent. Gunfire came in less frequent bursts. The screams were dying, as the men were dying, and there were fewer to scream. Granger cried out as he stumbled over something.

"Chief!" he yelled at her.

Beth pointed her gun lamp at his feet and saw a dismembered arm, the hand skeletal and pitted from acid, but on the shoulder, a uniform's stripes were still visible. A lieutenant's stripes.

"Retreat," Beth had whispered, as one of the things, sensing live prey still near, had erupted from the earth. She'd fired instinctively, hit another eye. "Just run." On her omni-tool, she'd quickly typed a signal, beaming the LZ coordinates to any other survivors.

They'd run. They'd run and run and run. A kilometer from the camp, the sounds of churning earth, gunfire, and screaming had ceased echoing across the plain entirely, and Beth's stomach had turned to cold stone. "Chief . . ." Granger had panted.

"I know!"

"No . . . Chief . . ."

Beth had turned then, and in the gun's lamplight she'd seen blood, a lot of it, far, far, too much, leaking through a gaping rip in Granger's uniform.

Beth had gone for the pouch in her jumpsuit where she kept her medi-gel, only to realize she was in her fatigues. Her jumpsuit and all the medi-gel it contained was back at the camp, and Granger obviously didn't have any either.

"Thing's mandible caught me," he'd grit out. "When Orwell . . . think it might have skewered something important." He laughed raggedly.

"No. No. We're not losing you, Granger," she'd said. "Templeton—the shuttle'll have first aid. We've got to make it. Come on. Come on!"

She'd slung her arm around his body and continued toward the landing zone. At first he'd been able to help. But he'd grown weaker and weaker, and by the time they'd reached the LZ, she'd been carrying him. She'd laid him down on the hillside, undisturbed here, knelt by him, pressed her hands into the wound, trying to stanch the flow. But he'd lost too much already.

Beth remembered she'd begged, pleaded. "No, no. Too many people have died today, Granger. Too damn many. You stay with me, private. You stay with me, dammit! Please, please. Just a few minutes. There'll be medi-gel in the shuttle. We can get you to the ship and the med-bay for transfusions. You'll be fine. You'll be fine. Damn you, why didn't you dodge?"

"Tried," he'd laughed weakly. "Can't all have superpowers, Chief."

"You can. You do. Remember how you took off that thing's leg with me? And back on Uriel, when you, Evans, and Wright stole that glider right out from under the batarians' noses? Saved that man and his son. That was awesome! Come on, Granger, you can't . . ."

Granger had shaken his head, smile weary. Shepard had seen the bright, beautiful green eyes that had driven so many of the women and a few of the men on Arcturus Station mad dimming. "Wright. Poor kid. Orwell . . . Chief, do you think . . . anyone else made it?"

"You stay with me, and we'll both go see. We'll find them."

"Sorry about the lieutenant . . . sorry . . . Chief. Know you liked him. Good officer. Good man . . . Fletcher, from the 601. You gotta tell her. She was the only one . . . the only one that really mattered. Tell her. And my mom . . . back on Eden Prime. You gotta tell 'em, Chief . . . I . . ."

Beth remembered she'd gripped his shoulders so tightly he'd winced. "Tell them yourself, dammit! Don't you . . . Granger! Ned!"

"Could I . . . could I have some water?"

Beth had shaken her head, crying so hard her voice came out all broken and wobbly. "It's all back at camp, Ned. Everything's back at camp. Everyone . . . everyone . . . just . . . just a little longer, Ned. The shuttle'll be here soon. Ned? Ned!"

But his eyes had gone glassy and empty. Beth had shaken him, shouted at him, but he was gone.

Andy Templeton had landed the shuttle two minutes later and found Beth covered in green and red blood, clutching Ned Granger's corpse to her and shaking silently, staring back across the plain.

In the morning, they'd flown back over Akuze to search for survivors. The settlement was still standing, echoing with emptiness. But the place where the camp had been was a mulched mound of dirt, still wet and red with the blood of the marines that had died in the thresher maw attack. They found scraps of canvas from the tents, fragments of destroyed supplies, the crumpled land vehicle, crushed to a quarter of its size and beyond repair, and a few charred bits of bone the worms hadn't bothered to devour.

But there was not a single survivor from the attack.

No one.

Except Beth Shepard.


	5. Protégée

V

Protégée

 **2177, DAVID ANDERSON**

When his former lieutenant and XO, Yuan Li, got promoted and received his own command, Anderson didn't begrudge the man the honor. Yuan was a good officer. Not the brightest bulb in the bunch. A little too by the book, but he was fair. Thorough. Yuan would never set the galaxy on fire, but the Alliance could count on him to get the job done. Anderson was happy for him. Still, it put him out an officer.

In N-division, the Alliance tended to give its captains a lot of freedom as to who they worked and fought with. They knew spec ops ran smoother when the men working them had absolute trust in each other and their officers. Each ship needed to run like a well-oiled machine, and each soldier played a vital part in making that happen. That went double for officers. The brass told Anderson he could pick his own XO. It was a luxury he hadn't had last time.

Selecting a new XO was a hassle, but it was an opportunity too: An opportunity to take his operation to the next level, an opportunity to build up an officer he could work with for years to come. Yuan had come to him too late. He'd already reached his full potential, already formed his habits. Anderson had had a decent two years with Yuan, but this time, he wanted someone young. Talented. Quick. Someone he could teach to be the kind of XO he wanted on his ship.

He hadn't been looking for Beth Shepard specifically. She'd just made a lot of noise recently when he started looking. When Anderson heard they'd stuck her in a desk job after Akuze, though, he asked the brass to go ahead and send him her file. Maybe she was as traumatized as they thought. Broken. Useless in any real fight. Still, maybe she wasn't.

Anderson hadn't started out looking at Shepard for the XO job either. He wanted young, but Beth Shepard was _young_. Not even twenty-four years old. He just figured there were a couple of other berths to fill on the _Trenton_. Might be a good way to ease Shepard back into active duty. He'd seen soldiers rot in desk jobs before. Beth Shepard had survived contact with monsters human beings had never encountered before in a completely unprecedented situation. She'd survived when no one else had. It'd be a shame if a soldier like that was put out to pasture when there was fight left in her.

By the time Anderson had finished reading her file, his instincts told him there was a _hell_ of a lot more fight in Beth Shepard, and he'd started seriously considering her for the XO job to boot. Grounding her wasn't just a shame: it was a damn waste. And he wasn't the only one that thought so. The captain of the _São Paulo,_ the last ship she'd served on, had recommended her as a suitable candidate for N-division spec ops training. Akuze had happened before the brass had acted on Captain Wendell's commendation one way or another, but there was a copy of the letter he'd written just sitting in her file. Someone somewhere had thought this woman would be suited for Anderson's division.

She'd started out in basic as a combat engineer, but had picked up a hand-to-hand specialty her first year, and a sniper specialty a couple years back. She was a proficient hacker, mechanic, and tech, as well as a first-rate shot, and for the last two years or so she'd been serving as the Lieutenant of the 179's second-in-command aboard the SSV _São Paulo,_ both as gunnery chief and operations chief.

All that was good, but the really interesting part was her background. Beth Shepard was a natural, no question, but she'd known too much of the business coming in and moved up too fast, considering she hadn't joined from the JROTC or an academy. No. Shepard had joined up right out of one of the poorest high schools in inner-city Vancouver, back on Earth. No parents. She'd grown up in the foster system. She'd never been arrested, and she'd taken full advantage of her right not to incriminate herself, but her basic instructors had speculated that prior to her enlistment, Beth Shepard had gotten her experience as a tech and/or heavy in one of the street gangs back where she'd grown up. It made sense. Orphans in some of the slums back on Earth had it real tough. Dodging drug addictions, the sex trade, underground slavers, or just flat-out poverty was sometimes a herculean feat in and of itself. A lot of kids turned to the gangs. Not getting caught, though? Getting out? That took a certain something. Not just guts, but a hell of a brain too. Shepard hadn't just gotten out, though. Even before basic, she'd been seventh in a class of fifteen hundred at her secondary school. Had several college credits—macrophysics, calculus, programming, linguistics. Galactic history too. Looking over the transcripts, it was hard to avoid the impression Shepard hadn't just planned for the Alliance. She'd studied for it. She'd worked for it for years.

Shepard had been a fighter all her life, long before she'd ever joined the Alliance. She was young, smart, talented, ambitious, determined, hardworking. Or she had been, before Akuze. Before Akuze, Beth Shepard had been more than the kind of soldier Anderson wanted for his ship, she'd been exactly the kind of officer he wanted for his new XO. Now he didn't know. No one knew.

After reading the file and thinking about it for a while, though, Anderson's gut said the last thing Shepard needed was to relive what had happened to her for the shrinks and scientists every night. She was grieving. Pissed. Some people worked through shit like that in an office. Others needed action. They needed to stay busy, keep moving forward. A fighter like Shepard? She was probably bored out of her mind in a desk, with a hell of a lot more time to think than was good for her. He wasn't sure, but Anderson had made it as far as he had trusting his instincts, and he had a strong enough feeling about it that he decided he wanted to talk to the lieutenant personally.

* * *

It'd been three months since Akuze. After that, of course they hadn't gone ahead and assigned Shepard to the _Cairo._ They'd brought her back to Earth. Made her talk to the scientists, describe the creatures that had killed the 179 over and over again, in detail. The creatures had been dubbed "thresher maws" in Alliance Basic, but it had been discovered that the species was known to a number of the other alien races in the galaxy. They reproduced via spores that could be transported on spacecraft and survive in space for millennia until they found a world on which to live. They were usually found in low, flat places. Akuze had been settled in such a place, but thresher maws, the asari said, were usually found on much more barren, hostile worlds, such as the krogan homeworld of Tuchanka, where they were particularly prevalent. The Special Ops branch of the Alliance, Shepard had been told, would be undertaking a thorough investigation into how and why so many of the usually solitary threshers had been found out of their habitat on the human colony world of Akuze.

Their promises didn't bring back the 179. Nothing did.

After she'd satisfied the scientists, the Alliance put her on leave to attend to the aftermath. There was a memorial service, long and ornate with speakers that didn't know a damn thing about anybody in the unit going on and on about tragedy and unforeseen loss. Flowers, flags, an original composition by one of the best composers in the day, talk of a memorial, a twenty-one gun salute. And fifty empty coffins on the platform.

They'd given Shepard a freaking medal like she'd done something heroic. Like she'd done more than luck out, because she'd been up about to do something she shouldn't. No one asked if there'd been a guard posted that night. No one asked why Shepard had been awake when the attack had come.

All the letters, all the calls about what had happened came to her. The accusatory ones from family members that asked her why she hadn't saved mama's baby boy or Gregson's wife. The imploring ones asking about last moments, like she knew. The polite ones asking her to speak at the private memorials. Shepard responded to all of these, however hollow it left her. The families and friends of the 179, the handful of people they'd known from the other _São Paulo_ units, one or two from Arcturus Station. Those were the only people in the galaxy who had the right to say _anything_ to Beth Shepard.

They were far from the only calls she got, though. Akuze had gotten the galaxy's attention. But the rest of the calls Shepard refused. The rest of the emails she deleted. The universe had blipped out for one moment, and she'd survived when everyone else had died. She'd done nothing to deserve the fame, the attention. It was all politics. The Alliance acknowledging the loss of a colony and a unit for good PR and a chance to tell the galaxy it'd never happen again. The rest of the galaxy looking on in delighted horror as the upstart humans'd finally tangled with something just a bit too big for them. There was one horrible, impersonal, official letter from the Citadel Council, offering condolences on the loss of the Akuze colony, the loss her unit had sustained, but congratulations upon her survival, as her species made its first contact with thresher maws in this completely unforeseen tragedy. The asari councilor claimed to know the pain she must be feeling. The salarian councilor commended her on the resourcefulness and will to survive she had displayed. The turian councilor expressed his assurance that as long as she survived, the memory of the 179 would live on. When Shepard read that particular letter, she printed it out just so she could personally consign it to hell in flames. Their ignorance, their presumption burned like the thresher maw acid.

Eventually, the emails and calls slowed down, and the Alliance reclaimed Shepard from leave. Shepard got the idea that brass was kind of pissed that after the public memorial, she hadn't attended a single Alliance PR event or meeting she'd been invited to regarding Akuze. Instead, she'd used the time to see to the needs of the few that genuinely grieved the 179. At any rate, when they called her back and she came back, they didn't assign her to another ship. Instead, she was plunked down into a desk job in Singapore, handling military biotic paperwork, like she knew shit about biotics, and remanded into mandatory posttraumatic psychotherapy.

It was slow torture. Flattening her ass on a hard, angled chair, pushing datapads, reading about biotic implants and lawsuits and complications and deciding which of these new dark-energy-wielding freaks could be trusted in the military and which should be put under military surveillance or lockdown. Line after line about neurochemistry and the effect of eezo on the body and the brain, and the way tech harnessed it all, but not really, until Shepard's eyes burned and her brain buzzed, and the lines onscreen blurred together into so many black letters of gibberish. Then seventeen hundred hours, and leaving the tiny, bare little office only to go to another, where a white, eager, little man with shining eyes and nervous fingers just like those of the scientists before him asked her to relive again and again what had happened at Akuze.

Shepard logged longer and longer hours at the range on the weekends.

Every so often, a man in an officer's uniform would come by there, or the shrink's office, or Shepard's office at work, and talk with another man in low, strained voices, looking guiltily over at her.

This was the first time one had asked to see her, though. Shepard walked into the offices the Alliance headquarters afforded visiting officers and found the guy staring out the window. The office was on the seventeenth floor, so he had quite a nice view of the city. He was in dress blues, decorated, with a captain's stripes. He didn't even bother closing the open datafile on the desk. Shepard saw her own picture.

 _Severe psychological damage,_ she made out. _Evidence of emotional disassociation, distancing. Coping badly. Subject under medication for nightmares and insomnia, and increased hostility, as demonstrated in worrying . . ._

Then the captain turned around, and Shepard saluted. "Sir."

The captain returned the address. "At ease, lieutenant," he said in a warm, sure voice. He shook Shepard's hand firmly, with conviction, but without aggression. "I'm Captain David Anderson. Take a seat. I wanted to talk to you."

Shepard, a bit wary, took the seat across the desk from him. Anderson took the big chair, the CO's chair. He looked like he was about forty, but pretty in shape for all that. A field officer, Shepard decided, and one with calluses on his palm. He had a strong, square, dark face, and his dark hair was shaved extremely close to his head.

"So. Lieutenant Shepard, is that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Born in Vancouver, enlisted at eighteen, fresh out of high school. Top of the class in basic training. A number of commendations for bravery, quick-thinking, and heroism there and in the six years since. Fought in the Skyllian Blitz. Captain Wendell of the _São Paulo_ says you, together with your immediate superior, Lieutenant Sean Ashton, saved the ship and that wing of the air assault. We'd have lost a lot of fighters that day if the _São Paulo_ had gone down."

"Yes, sir."

"How are you holding up, lieutenant?" he asked then. Shepard looked up. "What happened at Akuze was a nasty business, and the months since can't have been easy for you."

Shepard searched his face, but it was a genuinely sympathetic observation, soldier to soldier, from one officer that had lost soldiers in trust to another. She blinked, but answered. "I haven't shot anyone yet, sir. I'd say I'm doing pretty well."

Anderson barked a surprised laugh. "I'll bet. Your file, here," he tapped the datapad. "You look like a fighter. Must be going crazy, twiddling your thumbs down here."

"You got another idea for me, sir?" Shepard asked.

"I might have," Anderson said. He got down to business then. "It's a waste of a good officer, plunking you in a desk job, lieutenant. But to tell you the truth, no one knows what to do with you. That you survived Akuze is a miracle. But witnessing an entire unit get wiped out like that, well, no captain in the fleet is quite prepared for what it may have done to you, how it might affect you in future combat. I'd like to give you a chance. I think you're even tougher than your file suggests. You pulled yourself up from nothing with hard work and grit, survived where no one else did. I like that."

"Sir," Shepard said. "Permission to speak freely?"

Anderson smiled. "You'll learn you don't have to stand on formalities with me, Shepard. I like to work together with my soldiers. That doesn't happen unless you feel we can talk. Go ahead."

"Thank you, sir. Listen: I'd love to fly again. I'm dying here. But let's get one thing straight right now. I'm no hero. I'm no super soldier. I survived at Akuze . . . it was just . . . I don't know what it was. If you think that's a reason to take me on . . . well, it's not," Shepard finished.

Anderson nodded, but then he asked, "Is it a reason to keep you here?"

Shepard thought it was supposed to be rhetorical, but she answered seriously. "Possibly," she told him. "Brass may be right about me, Captain. I am not the soldier I was three months ago. I never will be again. Here's the truth: I'm not sure how I'll react in combat any more than the shrinks are. I do know I'm wasted here. And I know that if you do take me on, I will do my damnedest for you every day."

Anderson seemed to take that for what it was. "I'm sure you will. After what you went through, getting back into the field is a risk. But I have a good feeling about this. Here's the deal: I've asked that you be transferred to my command. My request has been approved. Upon your acceptance, you will be admitted to the Special Forces branch of the Alliance and assigned to my ship, The _Trenton_. She's a frigate, smaller than you're used to. Our missions will be different as well. Some will be classified. I answer directly to Alliance command. You answer to me. You'll be XO. On a trial basis, for now. We'll see how things work out."

Executive officer on a Special Forces frigate? It was similar to the role she'd played within the 179, but instead of a unit, she'd be overseeing day-to-day operations, the nuts and bolts of things, for an entire ship. And the operations she'd be overseeing . . . well, Shepard had just barely touched the N-division. The scientists she'd talked to immediately after Akuze had been operatives within Alliance Special Forces. She'd seen just enough, learned just enough, to know the shit she was likely to see with Anderson would be a huge step up from anything she'd ever seen before. The learning curve would be massive.

Shepard looked at Anderson. She knew from what he'd told her and from her own observation that she was considered a risky operative to have in a unit, psychologically damaged, an unknown quantity, after Akuze. That's why brass had stuck her here. That's why she was seeing the damn shrink. But this guy was willing to take the gamble. He thought she could hack it. And he might be her only chance to get out from behind the desk.

Shepard swallowed, smiled wryly. She jerked her head at the captain's lapel, at the small, white N7 insignia there. "I've never worked spec ops before. I'm a grunt, Captain. And I just lost my entire unit."

"Listen, Shepard," Anderson said. "Can you think of anything you could have done differently that might have saved them?"

"When Se—when the lieutenant didn't post a guard that night . . . I didn't press him, sir. The colony was dark, we didn't know what was going on. It looked quiet, but we should've known anything could happen. If someone had been able to sound the alarm—"

"Who was in command of the 179, Lieutenant?" Anderson asked, gently but firmly.

"Lieutenant Ashton, sir."

"Right. It was his call. When the attack came, what did you do?"

"I did everything I could, sir," Shepard said, accepting for the first time that it was true. She _could_ have pushed Ashton for the guard, and he would have listened, but ultimately, it _had_ been his call, and when the attack had come, she'd done everything she could. She'd done everything right, fulfilled all of her responsibilities. It had just happened so fast. So fast.

The images spun in front of her eyes again, and Shepard closed them. The screams rang out in her ears, and she shook her head to dispel them. "I'm still not sure I'm what you want, sir," she whispered. "But I know an opportunity when I see one. I'll never get another chance like this. Thank you. I'll join your crew." She shook David Anderson's hand once more, sealing the deal.

Anderson smiled. "You won't regret it, Shepard. There's a shuttle in port. Grab your gear, and be there at 0700 tomorrow. We fly at 1000."


	6. Cold

VI

Cold

* * *

 **TRAILER FOR** _ **SILENT NIGHT**_ **(2180), THE FIFTH VID WITH A CHARACTER BASED ON LIEUTENANT BETH SHEPARD (PLAYED BY AMANDA STEVENS)**

Awkward, uncomfortable, expectant silence. Open on a psychiatrist's office, minimalist, black, white, and glass. A kindly looking human male in glasses, mid-forties, stares across the table at a disheveled young woman. There are blue shadows, almost black in the pallor of her face, under her bloodshot blue eyes. Her thin lips are chapped. Her dark, blonde hair is falling out of its military bun. Her sweats are wrinkled and sloppy. She braces her arms on her thighs and stares at her hands. Her nails are ragged, picked or bitten bloody.

 **PSYCHIATRIST: Would it help to tell me what happened?**

 **BETH SHEPARD: (barks a bitter, half-hysterical laugh)Help how? The aliens have given you the specs on the thresher maws. You don't need me anymore.**

 **PSYCHIATRIST: You're tired. You're grieving. I understand.**

 **BETH SHEPARD: (snaps) You don't understand anything! You can't understand unless you were there.**

Fade to black. Words appear onscreen.

 **FROM THE DIRECTOR OF** _ **LIVE FOR THE CAUSE**_ **AND** _ **A**_ _ **SINGULAR CITIZEN**_

Aerial shot of the empty streets of the Akuze colony. Ground shot of a single street. Dust blows in the wind.

 **CAPTAIN MILO WENDELL (voiceover): Akuze has gone dark. Extranet communications, radio, heat sensors. It's like they don't exist.**

The silence is torn by an unearthly roar. The screen is consumed by a shot of the gaping jaw of a thresher ( _pretty obviously computer-generated, because even in well-made vids like this, no one wants to mess with the real thing_ ). A single, discordant crash of sound. The screen goes black.

Shot of a bunch of uniformed servicemen and women walking down the corridor of a freighter toward the shuttle bay.

 **SERVICEWOMAN TRICIA CURTIS: (half-light, half-nervous) What do you think is down there?**

 **SERVICEMAN EDMUND GRANGER: (slings an arm around her shoulders) Boggarts? Ghosties? I wouldn't worry too much, Trish. I'll protect you.**

CURTIS shoves GRANGER playfully away from her.

 **SERVICEWOMAN TRICIA CURTIS:** Get spaced, Granger!

 **CORPORAL BRIAN TOOMBS: (grimly) More likely pirates hit the colony when the watch was slouching, and everyone down there's been taken for the slave markets or worse.**

 **LIEUTENANT SEAN ASHTON: And no one got away even long enough to send a distress beacon? (clicks tongue at Toombs) You're grimmer than your name is, corporal. Don't be such a pessimist. I don't know what we're going to find down there, but I'm betting it's a bit more interesting than pirates.**

 **SERVICEMAN EDMUND GRANGER: (raising his eyebrows) Because 'interesting' is just what we live for in this business.**

ASHTON and CURTIS laugh. TOOMBS continues to scowl. Shot fades away into a camp at dusk near a deserted colony. The landscape is dull and barren. Many of the soldiers look weary and puzzled and frustrated. ASHTON is kneeling on the bare dirt. He stands.

 **LIEUTENANT SEAN ASHTON: We're losing the light. Let's pack it in. We'll split up and search the area more thoroughly tomorrow.**

Aerial shot of the camp as the sun sets. Fades out to the sound of heavy breathing. Close up on the anguished face of BETH SHEPARD in the psychiatrist's office, sweating with her eyes screwed shut. She is clearly in the grips of a panic attack. Fade to black.

 **IN MEMORY OF THE ALLIANCE 179** **TH**

A single, male turian voice starts singing an old Hierarchy hymn to minimalist instrumentation—customarily sung to remember the valiant dead, struck down in the service of their government, as the camera flares to show the camp in the dark, swarmed by no less than four thresher maws. Alliance men and women run and fall, most dressed in fatigues and armed only with omni-tools. A red flare goes up into the night. There is no screaming, no voices, no sound but the song, as the turian voice is overtaken by a human choir singing the same song over a rich, full orchestra.

BETH SHEPARD, in full uniform, puts a sniper rifle to her shoulder and shoots out the eye of a maw. She turns and runs as one dives underground and comes up spewing acid. She screams into a radio.

 **BETH SHEPARD: We need air support, air lift, anything! Get us out!**

The camp, seen from a distance, is illuminated in fire as a tank explodes, blowing up one of the thresher maws. BETH SHEPARD is running with five Alliance soldiers behind her, firing as they go. The choir stops singing, but the orchestra continues.

BETH SHEPARD, wild-eyed, sweeps an ornament off the desk of the PSYCHIATRIST. It flies into the window, which shatters, revealing a view of the Singapore cityscape on Earth.

 **WITH AMANDA STEVENS, RUSS DANIELS, AND KHALEEL TOMKINS**

The Alliance flag wafts in the breeze. A trumpeter stands on an elevated stage next to seven soldiers with guns. The Vancouver skyline stretches up to a steel-gray sky. At parade rest on the stage in the dress uniform of a lieutenant, BETH SHEPARD stands behind fifty coffins. They are just for show, because all of them are empty. Fade to black.

 **SILENT NIGHT**

 **MARCH 24**

* * *

The ship was almost empty. Everyone was out on shore leave, exploring Fehl Prime's sights, but Shepard still sat at her desk going over reports and paperwork. Some of it she'd seen four times already. None of it was urgent.

Footsteps sounded in the doorway. Then they stopped. Shepard felt someone watching her. She knew who it'd be before she looked up. Anyone but Anderson would have moved on. She didn't fraternize with the crew outside of daily rounds, and that was purely duty, and everyone knew it.

"What do you need, Anderson?" Shepard asked him, looking again at a requisition order for an implant upgrade for Dovsky and deciding to authorize it. They were headed to the edges of asari space next month. If they ran into any asari combatants, it'd be useful to have Dovsky in peak condition.

"What are you doing here, Shepard?" Anderson sighed. "There's nothing on that desk you can't handle tomorrow."

Shepard didn't pretend to misunderstand him as she signed the requisition order and added the cost to the financials on her right. "What are _you_ doing here, sir? You could be enjoying shore leave just as much as I could. Some reason _you're_ here, instead?"

"I noticed you didn't get off the ship," Anderson said. Shepard heard him sit down in the chair across from her. "Shepard." He didn't go on until she put down the dossier on the new engineer that'd be boarding tomorrow and looked up at him at last.

"Anderson."

"You're the best damn XO in the fleet, but you need to take a break."

"I'm fine, sir."

"The hell you are. N7 in two years, using your leave for the courses?"

"If you hadn't wanted me to go for it, you wouldn't have nominated me, sir."

"I wanted you to go for it, not kill yourself. You don't have anything to prove, but you're running yourself into the ground. Do you do anything but work?"

Shepard shook her head. "I don't do it for you, sir. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful. You've done a lot for me. I owe it to you. But I work because I like it."

"No, you don't," Anderson contradicted her. "If it were ambition, that'd be one thing, but it's not, and you and I both know it. You've pulled out the miracles so far, but if you keep this up, you _will_ burn out, and I need you. So I'm calling it. Take the night off, Shepard. Enjoy your damn shore leave. Get some sleep. That's an order."

Shepard studied her captain's face and saw he wouldn't give ground on this one. She nodded once. "Yes, sir," she said, stood, and left the office.

She made her way to the tiny cabin that served as the XO quarters on the _Camlann_ , switched her fatigues out for one of two street outfits she owned—the faded jeans and the soft, worn, blue-knit hoodie. She unpinned her braid, massaging the tingling places where the pins had dug into her scalp. She kept her boots on and hit the head.

She did her business, washed her hands, and splashed some water on her face. She stared at her reflection in the cheap women's mirror. It was hardly big enough to reflect her face, and that reflection was pretty poor, given the dim lighting.

Not poor enough. In the mirror she saw the same features she always did—long, thin, bony face; sharp, narrow nose and sharp, narrow jaw; deep-set, dark gray eyes under thick brows, striking and forbidding in an olive complexion that clashed oddly against her long, light yellow plait. The severity of that face was only alleviated by an admittedly generous mouth, but her body, outside of the mirror's reflection, was more like the rest of her—all angles and lines, cut quick and small, for all she wasn't too short—and hard, so hard. Every centimeter told her whole damn story, every bleak, pathetic line of it, from the cold streets of Vancouver to the sleepless nights Anderson was so worried about and the annoyance she was feeling right now.

She looked like she needed time off. Damn him. Shepard sighed and turned to leave.

If it had been anyone else, she'd have fought it. But Anderson was her CO, and probably the closest thing to a friend Shepard had these days. She did owe him, but more, she respected him. If he said she needed time off, Shepard would listen. Didn't mean she'd like it.

It wasn't a complete lie, that she didn't do it for him, that she liked the work. And Anderson wasn't completely right, that it wasn't ambition. The _actual_ truth was that Shepard liked focusing on her career, and it helped that Anderson doing so much for her gave her more motivation than just working until the demons in her head were too exhausted to roar. Running ragged was better than running scared. But Anderson was right, too. She'd pulled off the miracles so far, but she was already on meds to help her stomach and more to help her sleep at night. She hadn't hit her limit yet, so she couldn't exactly say what it was, but Shepard was pretty sure it was coming up quick. And if she hit it while she was groundside with a team for Anderson or on a classified mission for Alliance command, when there were lives depending on her decisions, well, then it really would be her fault if her people paid the price.

Shepard grabbed her pistol from the armory before she left the ship, and when she left, she ran a search for the nearest range on her omni-tool.

Anderson had probably meant she should watch a vid or check into a hotel spa. Hit up some slot machines. Whatever the hell else people usually did on shore leave. Except who was she going to do it with except the rest of the crew? Rounds were one thing. Ashton had been right, all those years ago. You had to know your unit. They had to know they could trust you. Shepard knew the crew. They trusted that she'd get the job done. Always.

But that was far as things ever went. Ashton had taught her one other thing. Him most of all, but also Granger, Evans, Wright. All of the 179. Fraternization regs existed for a damn good reason. Shepard kept a professional distance, and when soldiers were injured or died, they didn't take bits of her with them anymore.

Never again, she'd promised herself after Akuze. _Never again_.

The only problem, of course, was that Shepard found that she could only shoot things for so long before it got boring, and then it was only a matter of time before it got irritating. The moving target system was practically an antique, and when Beth rented a sniper rifle from the desk, because it would have looked really weird carrying hers around in her civvies, the thing was a piece of shit. The barrel had a distinct leftward warp, the stabilizers were shot to hell, and the scope was pretty much just a piece of glass with a crosshairs in it. Eventually, Shepard gave it up and tried to go back to the ship.

That bastard Anderson had issued an order. The ship's automated systems told her in a stupid, polite, metallic VI voice that "XO Shepard, access is restricted to the deck until 0900, tomorrow, June 19, 2180, by order of the commanding officer. Have a nice day."

Shepard almost hacked the damn thing before she remembered that technically that could be considered a crime against the Alliance and didn't. Instead, she wandered around the settlement until she got sort of hungry, then brought up a list of bars within walking distance on her omni-tool and picked the one with the lowest rating, the one where the rest of the crew were least likely to be and invite her to join them out of some misguided courtesy or sense of obligation.

The place was dimly lit and full of smoke. In a colony full of pharmacists, Shepard didn't wonder that this place wasn't extremely popular, if it was smoker-friendly. Shepard ignored the noxious clouds and sat down at the bar. Even in the low lights, she could see fingerprints and leftover food crumbs all along the length of it, and the bartender was a shifty looking, heavy-set man with iron-gray hair and a perpetual frown. She wasn't too bothered by it. She'd grown up in dodgier places.

She signaled the bartender, fully intending to get as close to shit-faced drunk as she safely could alone without backup in this place. From her days in the 179 and a couple of really bad flaming hoops she'd jumped through as a grunt to prove herself to the different units before then, she knew she could handle her gun or a barroom brawl while pretty far gone, but she had no intention of passing out here. Just to get her brain submerged enough in the stuff it couldn't think. With no work in front of her, no objective, her mind was already starting to wander.

She was halfway through her steak sandwich, but only just started on her whiskey when the bartender slid her another. Shepard looked up.

"Don't look at me," the bartender grunted. "It's on that guy."

He pointed at a man at the other end of the bar. Shepard gave him the once-over. Youngish, but no kid. Reasonably attractive. Tall. Obviously took care of himself. Dark hair and sparkling, green eyes shooting an openly admiring expression her way. She was supposed to pick up on it. The drink was invitation, the look the prelude to a proposition. He tipped his glass at her.

Shepard considered. Then, because she was so damn empty it hurt, and because she was leaving in the morning, she raised an eyebrow and jerked her head. The guy obligingly came over.

"Thanks for the drink," she said. "Beth."

"Aaron. Haven't seen you here before. You come here often?"

"No. Just a stop on the road. My ship leaves in the morning."

"Business trip?"

Shepard looked down at her gun. Aaron's eyes followed her glance, and widened. Shepard smirked at him. "You could say that."

"Alliance, huh? Here on shore leave?"

"On the _Camlann._ "

Shepard wondered when he'd skip the small talk and get to the point, and she guessed he got the message, because he asked, "And your one night of shore leave, they let you come out here all alone? Got any plans?"

"Don't know," Shepard said. "Unless you've got some ideas."

From the expression on his face, the way his entire body relaxed, Shepard knew the conversation was going as perfectly as Aaron could wish. She wasn't even going to make him work for it. And it wasn't like she cared what he thought about her. She was never going to see him again.

"Oh, I've got a few," he said.

* * *

After, Aaron lay on the bed, grinning like an idiot. Not quite the veteran she'd initially taken him for after all, she thought, staring at the ceiling. But it didn't change the fact that he'd certainly taken his chance. Shepard felt sorry for him, even as she despised him, despised herself. Her heart seemed to have crystallized, but for the first time in two years her head was clear, and not from exhaustion. Her meds were back on the ship, but Shepard didn't think she'd need them tonight. Maybe she was despicable, but maybe she'd be okay.

She hadn't paid much attention to the place coming in. Now she looked around. Aaron's apartment was small, comfortably cluttered. The furniture was mismatched. The television and the fridge were the main features of the place, and peering into the open bathroom, she only saw one toothbrush, so Shepard was reasonably certain she hadn't crushed any ongoing permanent relationship with a woman. It disturbed her now to find that it wouldn't have mattered to her even if she had.

She sat up, reached for the hair tie on the nightstand. She finger-combed her hair into some mockery of order, and kneeling down, began to get dressed again.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Aaron asked. He grinned at her. "You don't have to go _that_ fast. Stay a while. We'll get pizza or something. Good, old-fashioned Earth pizza. Pepperoni? You aren't leaving till the morning, right?"

Shepard pulled on her pants and began lacing up her right boot. "I'll stay at a motel," she said. "Look. I'm sorry. I said I'm leaving tomorrow, and you were pretty excited about that before. I thought you'd know what this was. We had fun. Take the win, and don't waste time feeling guilty about it."

Aaron fell back against the headboard, staring. "Wow. Just . . . wow. I guess. Um . . . thanks?"

"Yeah." Shepard pulled on her hoodie. Stood.

" _Did_ you have fun, at least?" he asked, "Or does the ice in your veins numb everything?" He tried to smile, laugh off the hurt and self-doubt as he fumbled for his own pants to cover up now.

"So I used you, just like you used me," Shepard said, grabbing her gun and putting it back in its holster. "Doesn't mean it wasn't enjoyable. Better than painkillers, Aaron." She wanted to call him 'kid,' or 'hotshot,' put even more distance between them, but she'd at least look what she'd done in the face. Be honest with him, and herself.

He forced a laugh as he stood and pulled on his shirt. "Damn. You are a piece of work, aren't you? C'mon. I'll walk you out."

Shepard decided to allow him that much, and walked with him to the door. "I wasn't always like this," she murmured. "And I don't actually think this is your thing at all."

"Maybe not," he said. He was partly still hurt and angry, but his face softened somewhat, as he actually considered her words. He opened the door for her.

Shepard paused in the doorway. Grimaced. He wasn't a bad guy. "Next time, Aaron?" she murmured, without looking at the man she'd just slept with just because she was locked out of the ship, just to stop herself from thinking. "If you want her to stay, _be_ someone who wants her to stay, and look for someone who will."

Aaron was staring at her. Shepard could see him out of the corner of her eye. His mouth was open a little. He looked like a concussed goldfish, but also a little too much like he was starting to understand that this hadn't been about him for her at all. He started to reach for her shoulder, hesitated, and dropped his hand. "Yeah," he muttered then. "You . . . you . . . good luck."

Shepard barked one mirthless laugh and walked out without saying goodbye.

* * *

 **A/N:** **I keep writing the trailers for the good ones, but I'm guessing even in** _ **Silent Night**_ **, turian-made—extremely accurate as far as props, costumes, and realistic Alliance-type blocking goes—you can see the embellishment that is part of the reason I came up with them. I imagine** _ **Silent Night**_ **surprised everyone with its respect and sympathy for the Alliance, but it also had a decided "poor human couldn't hack it" skew. And of course, almost no one gets Shepard exactly right. Take my word for it, though—there are far worse ones out there.**

 **Enough about the special features, though. The trailer's good, but I'm more interested in the story here. Hope you enjoyed that bit, too.**

 **Leave a review if you've got something to say. I always love to hear from my readers,**

 **LMS**


	7. Motivation

VII

Motivation

Nihlus sat down across from Shepard, eyeing his tray with considerable misgiving. Shepard didn't blame him. She didn't think Tucks had ever tried to prepare dextro rations before the _Normandy_ had started her flight. Couldn't say he had done now. Shepard didn't know what the stuff on Kryik's tray was. She watched the turian out of the corner of her eye, and had to admit to herself she was a little impressed when he gamely dived into the stuff—was it blue or gray? She couldn't really tell.

"Sure it's not going to kill you, Spectre?"

Nihlus's mandibles flared as he forced the mouthful down. "No. That would be embarrassing, though. Everything I've been through. Downed by food poisoning." He made what had to be the turian equivalent of an expression of disgust. Shepard looked down at her food. Human children had nightmares about teeth like that. After a half dozen conversations with Kryik over the last couple days on the _Normandy_ shakedown run, his were starting to lose their impact. Anyway, Shepard thought, vorcha were way worse. Just not as highly publicized in human media.

"Revolting," Nihlus remarked, still addressing the food.

But Shepard had lost interest in Tucks's attempts at dextro rations. She'd finally got a straight answer on what Kryik was doing here, and she thought it was about time they had that talk Anderson and the transmission from Eden Prime had interrupted. They'd touch down in a matter of minutes. Both of them were already geared up for the mission. It wouldn't hurt to know what Nihlus was expecting to see from her on the ground.

"So," she said, "The Powers That Be think they'd better throw humanity a bone before some of us get pissed enough we start the Human Rebellions. They think a human should join the Spectres, and you recommended me. Why?"

Nihlus chuckled appreciatively. "You've got a good handle on the situation. To many, humanity _does_ seem like the new krogan, only even less predictable."

Shepard shrugged. "That's not saying much. The krogan are pretty damn predictable. If they can shoot it, they want to shoot it. End of story."

"Humanity has displayed similar aggression in the past."

Shepard sat back and folded her arms. "Mm. Most of us at least ask questions before we start shooting. You can't always say the same for the turians."

Nihlus didn't take the bait now any more than he had back in the meeting with Anderson. "There's bad feeling on both sides over the Relay 314 Incident," he said. "But we're working together now. The Council hopes a human Spectre will help humanity feel invested in intergalactic law."

Shepard tapped her fingers on her arm and raised an eyebrow at Nihlus. She wasn't buying, and she respected him enough to tell him so. "Without actually getting a say."

Kryik didn't deny it. "I hope that won't always be the case," he told her. "It's true I'm a minority, but I see potential in your species. Look at the _Normandy_. This ship shows what our races can accomplish together. Humans have an admirable adaptability, an essential trait in a Spectre. You show more than most."

Shepard considered. Nihlus seemed genuine. Maybe he hadn't recommended her for Special Tactics and Reconnaissance as part of some interspecies cooperation political bullshit, but she still wanted to know just why he thought she was the best option. The bad part was she thought maybe she did know. She shifted in her chair. "Akuze?" she asked shortly.

Nihlus shook his head. "That may have been when the Council started watching you, but what caught my attention was that incident on Asteria last year. The actions you took on the field saved a lot of lives, and later, you witnessed in court on behalf of the colony. You didn't have to do that. Most humans wouldn't have, for the asari."

Shepard blinked, surprised. "The right thing to do is the right thing to do," she answered. "Whether the innocents at risk are human, blue and tentacled, or only have six fingers." She gestured at Nihlus's hands with a nod. "There's too much ugly and stupid in the galaxy. I've seen enough of it. I do the decent thing when I can. Try to leave something good behind at least as often as I take the bad things out."

"And _that's_ why I recommended you, Commander," Nihlus said, with satisfaction. "That's what we need in the first human Spectre. Someone who will get the job done right, regardless of the politics, colors, and amino-acid structure. The humans will try to make you a champion. The Council will try to make you a symbol. You? You do your job, whatever that might be, in the best way you know how."

Shepard finished her meal. "I always do my job," she retorted, irritated now. "You know that or you wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have made it this far. Why are you here, anyway?"

Nihlus forced down another bite and pointed his spork at her. "I'm here because I want to see how you do your job, and more importantly, _why_."

"Why," Shepard repeated, nonplussed.

"Why," Nihlus agreed. "I can't know what kind of Spectre you'll be unless I know why you make the decisions you make. What do you fight for, Commander Shepard?"

Shepard stared. "What do you want me to say?" she asked finally. "Patriotism, the Alliance? Humanity?"

"Only if it's the truth," Nihlus answered, unruffled. "You've been very direct so far, Shepard. Blunt, some might say. Even reckless. But it makes me think you're a woman that can be trusted to know her own mind, and speak it, no matter what the consequences. That's good, but I need more. The Spectres need more. So: why do you fight?"

Shepard pushed her tray away and stared down at the table. When she'd been a child, she'd gotten into all sorts of trouble because she couldn't keep her damn mouth shut or lie when she needed to lie, couldn't let idiots well enough alone or pretend to be less than she was. She hadn't completely been able to fool the Reds, even when her survival and escape depended upon them thinking her at first different than she was, then less than she was. She'd hated holding back, hated the flattery and deception, and she'd stopped it the second she'd been able. Now she was well known as someone who'd give it to you straight, no matter how cold or unpleasant the truth turned out to be. It was why Anderson's people had always trusted her, even when they didn't like her. She never took the easy way out, never lied to herself or to others. Not anymore.

And now Nihlus had asked her the question, she had to answer, "Sir, I just . . . I don't know what I'm fighting for."

In the beginning, back in Vancouver, in the Reds, she'd fought to get out. Later, when she'd established herself and met Ashton, she'd fought for herself, to be the officer they all thought she could be, the officer she'd believed she could be. But after Akuze, all ambition had died. After that, she'd fought for Anderson, because she owed it to him, or just to keep herself sane.

It'd probably been almost two years, though, since she'd felt she _had_ to fight. She was an N7, and she'd earned it. The best damn XO in the fleet. Anderson said so, and Shepard knew it was true, because she'd worked like hell to make it true. She'd saved his life a couple times. They were at the top of their cooperative game. She didn't owe him anything. Not anymore. And as for the desperation, the demons in her head, time had done its thing. Struggling to prove she could hack it, that Anderson hadn't been wrong about her, forcing back the screams from that night in 2177, the aching emptiness where Sean Ashton had been torn from her before she'd quite let him go, had all faded away into a habit of excellence, practiced competence. She hadn't needed meds to sleep or keep her food down for . . . _had_ it been over two years? Emptiness had become so routine Shepard didn't even feel it anymore.

But she didn't feel anything else, either. She tried to do the decent thing, like she'd said, but now she thought about it, she didn't have the faintest idea why. There was too much ugly and stupid in the galaxy, but why was it her job to fix it?

Disturbed, Shepard stood, grabbed her tray. They didn't have time to navel-gaze, anyway. Any second Anderson would be calling them to the hold for the drop into the operation zone. She had to go see to Jenkins and Alenko, check over all their equipment, and make sure everything was in order for the mission. Things were already looking like they weren't going to go at all according to plan. "Sir," she said to Nihlus, excusing herself with the single syllable.

"Commander." Nihlus tried one more bite, then gave it up. Shepard took his tray, too. "Figure it out, Commander," he said, standing and beginning to draw his weapons for his own last minute equipment check. "What you're fighting for. A Spectre acts alone, without your Alliance supervision. Unless you have a motivation, you'll be flying blind." He gave her a nod and headed toward the hold. "See you down on Eden Prime."

* * *

 **A/N: This concludes the third part of _The Disaster Zone_. The fourth part, _Awakening_ , will begin posting Saturday, November 25. I hope you continue to enjoy reading about Beth Shepard as she changes and grows. At the close of this particular section, though, I'd like to especially thank seabo76 and TheXGrayXLady. Your support keeps me smiling as I post. In a lot of ways, you are the "face" of my audience to me, though my love goes out to everyone that's taking the time to read and appreciate my story. **

**And to my readers from the US: Happy Thanksgiving!**

 **LMS**


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